Because I Was Bored
by 10WeepingAngel
Summary: Three years post-Reichenbach, John is kidnapped by Moriarty. He learns that not only are Moriarty and Sherlock alive, but Sherlock has been Moriarty's prisoner the whole time.
1. Chapter 1: Reacquaintance

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own Sherlock. That honor goes to the BBC.**

**Rating: ****T. Definitely T. There will be violence, probably swearing, and Jim. Jim is his own warning, so BEWARE.**

**A/N: ****New story. Yes I just started a new story. I will update both, I promise. Please read, review, and enjoy!**

**Because I Was Bored**

Chapter 1: Reacquaintance 

John woke up slowly, glancing around. He struggled to take in his surroundings. Things were . . . not how they usually were when he woke up. For one thing, he was not in his bed. He seemed to be tied to a chair, in a room that was clearly meant to hold prisoners. The chair he was tied to was bolted to the floor. The walls were made of concrete, and there were no windows. The only door seemed to be made of steel.

However, the room still managed to be ridiculously opulent, for a cell, anyway. There was an ornate carpet on the stretch of floor that wasn't needed for the chair, and there was an extremely fancy couch resting against the far wall. The couch and rug both had annoyingly loud patterns and looked vaguely Oriental. It was like the room was a study in opposites.

John took a deep breath and cast his mind back, trying to determine how he'd gotten there. He had got off his shift at the hospital at about 3 pm and was walking home, a van pulled up in front of him, and that was it.

Right then. Kidnapped, obviously. Taken to the strangest cell he'd ever seen in his life. He didn't know why he was there, but he knew that it had to have something to do with Sherlock. John had managed to go a long time without accruing enemies before he met Sherlock, but he was certain that he had inherited thousands when he befriended him.

The only question now was which enemy had decided to get revenge now.

_"Honestly," _John thought, _"It's a bit ridiculous, someone trying to get revenge on me now, when Sherlock's been dead for three years."_

John hadn't done anything remotely interesting in the three years since Sherlock's death, so whoever it was, was a bit slow in the revenge department. _"Or just got out of prison,"_ John added silently.

Either way, bit not good. John tugged at his restraints, testing their strength. His hands were cuffed behind him and his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. As restraints go, those weren't bad. John was able to determine in seconds that he wouldn't be able to slip them. He settled back to wait for his captor to make an appearance.

John had been waiting nearly twenty minutes before the door creaked open. He sat up straight, waiting to see what mysterious enemy was about to step through the door.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the figure drawled. "I didn't realize you were up."

John's jaw dropped in disbelief. It was impossible. Completely impossible. And yet, Jim Moriarty had just stepped through the door and was smirking at John. Before John could even wrap his head around the impossible thing standing before him, Jim turned glancing through the open door.

"C'mon, then," he urged to whoever was outside. "I told you I wanted you to see this one."

There was a long suffering sigh that sounded . . . strangely familiar, and then a second figure stepped into the room, glanced over at him, and froze.

Sherlock looked at John, shock and disbelief written across his face as his eyes darted frantically around the room, taking in every detail. Abruptly, he turned, rounding on Moriarty, fury in his gaze. "What the _hell_ is he doing here, Jim?" Sherlock asked furiously.

Moriarty shrugged and smiled faintly. "I was bored," he said calmly.

Sherlock turned away, furiously pacing the length of the room. He looked furious. He looked . . . remarkably alive, for a dead man. So did Moriarty, for that matter. John felt that it was high time to point that out.

"Um, Sherlock," John said, trying with little success to find a way to express his thoughts. He took a deep breath. "You're alive. How are you alive?" He looked at Moriarty nervously. "While we're on the topic, how is _he _alive?"

Sherlock blinked, confused for a moment. Then clarity shot across his features and he winced slightly. "Right," he said quietly. "Yes. I'm alive. He's alive."

He walked towards John, pausing in front of him. "I faked it, John. My death. I had to, there was no choice. Jim . . . was going to kill you. And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and just about everyone else, so I . . . had to die. Sorry." He stared at John for a moment, waiting for his response.

John blinked, trying to take that in. "So, basically, everyone's alive," he said blankly. "That's . . . lovely, I suppose." He looked at Moriarty. "Except him. It's not really lovely that he's alive, especially seeing as how he just kidnapped me. Speaking of which, what the hell is going on, exactly?"

Sherlock hesitated, hoping for a bit more reaction. None was forthcoming. He nodded once, and then turned back to Moriarty, who was waiting patiently by the door. "I was wondering that myself, actually," he said. "Jim, why is he here? And don't tell me you were bored, you're always bored. You promised not to hurt John when I agreed to come with you, and yet, he seems to be tied to a chair in front of me. So I have to ask, one more time, what the_ hell _is going on?!"

Jim smiled innocently. "I didn't promise not to hurt him, I promised not to _kill_ him," he told Sherlock nonchalantly. "Not breaking any promises, here."

_"No,"_ Sherlock told him coldly, "You promised not to _hurt_ him. In any way."

"I'm not sure the conversation went like that," Jim said absently. "I don't think I would have promised something like that."

"Well, you DID!" Sherlock shouted. "Remember? The conversation went something like, 'I promise, if you come with me now I won't kill him,' and then I said, 'Promise you won't hurt him and I'll go with you,' and you said, 'Hurt him how?' and I said, 'In any way. Don't hurt him in any way and I'll do what you ask,' and you said, 'Alright, Sherlock Holmes, you have yourself a deal.' Does this conversation sound _familiar_ yet, Jim?"

"Oh, _that_ conversation. I'd forgotten about that one," Jim admitted, gazing at the ceiling nostalgically. He grinned at Sherlock. "Good times, eh?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "Your _promise_, Jim."

"Well, Sherlock, honey, I hate to break this to you, but I _am_ a bit . . . changeable." Jim smiled coldly.

Sherlock stared at Jim for a moment, and then began to speak, quietly at first, but getting louder by the second. "_Why_, Jim?" He demanded. "I did everything you asked. _Everything._ I came with you, I left everything behind. I let all my friends think I was dead _because you told me to._ I helped you with your schemes, I _killed_ people for you, just so you wouldn't hurt him. And now you're going to hurt him, you're going to _kill_ him, because you're _bored? _When, exactly, did I stop being entertaining enough, Jim? What do you want? Should I beg you to have mercy on him? Is that what you want?"

Jim tilted his head, interested. He smirked at Sherlock calmly. "Yes," he said softly. "Beg for his life, and maybe I'll spare him. Beg for mercy, Sherlock Holmes."

John felt himself go cold at those words. A memory flashed into his mind, from _years_ ago. _'I've never begged for mercy in my life' _and fear rushed through him. He stared at Sherlock, praying desperately, irrationally, that he'd stay silent.

Sherlock glanced at John quickly, his face twisting, apology bright in his eyes, and then turned resolutely back to Jim. "Please," he said quietly. "Please, Jim, have mercy. Don't kill John, please don't kill John. I'll do anything you want, you _know_ I will, just . . . don't kill him."

Jim studied Sherlock, seeming to consider his words, and then laughed. "Sherlock," he said with amusement, 'That may be the most insincere plea I've ever heard, and I've heard quite a few."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I thought that one was quite good, actually," he said, projecting a layer of calm, that couldn't fully hide the desperate rage just beneath the surface. "Besides," Sherlock pointed out, "Last week you said the most insincere plea was when I asked you to forgive my burning your dinner."

Jim scowled. "You burned the soup to the bottom of the pan," he snarled. "It had to be scraped out with a _chisel_, I'm fairly certain you _owed_ me that apology."

"Yes, scraped out by _me_," Sherlock retorted. "While you were trying to _stab _me, by the way, which didn't actually make it easier. _Plus, _you had another two courses in that meal and you don't even _like _soup, so I don't know why you even _cared_."

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" Jim screamed suddenly. "It's the _principle_ of the thing-"

"Um, if I could just- interrupt," John cut in awkwardly. "Are you arguing about _soup?_ Because, hi, still tied to a chair."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "John, shut up," he said flatly. "Jim. Let him go."

Moriarty's face twisted with rage at these words and he strode furiously across the room. He stopped in front of Sherlock, who had flinched back at his approach. "_Don't. Tell. Me. What. To. Do._" Jim ordered softly.

Sherlock opened his mouth, an apology on his lips, but before he could speak Jim's hand swung forward, cracking across Sherlock's face and slamming his head into the wall behind him. John gave a startled cry of horror as Sherlock froze against the wall, blood running down his face.

Moriarty turned away from him and strode toward the door. He stepped through it and paused, glancing back at Sherlock, who hadn't moved.

"Why don't you spend a little time with your old pet?" he suggested coldly. "Get reacquainted. I'll be back in the morning."

With that he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. John heard the distinctive sound of a lock snapping shut. He looked frantically back at Sherlock and watched as he slid slowly down the wall, staring blankly at the closed door.

"Sherlock . . .?" John questioned uncertainly. "Are you all right?"

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. Then he started laughing, burst of near-hysterical laughter that showed no sign of stopping. John stared at him for a moment, and then closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2: Lost Time

**Warnings: ****Swearing and references to drug use.**

**A/N:**** New chapter! Enjoy, and please review!**

Chapter 2: Lost Time

It took nearly twenty minutes for Sherlock to bring his laughter under control. When he finally trailed off into silence, John glanced nervously at him. "Feeling a bit better, then?" he asked, barely suppressing a hint of sarcasm.

"Yes, much," Sherlock told him with a sigh. Abruptly he turned, frowning at John in concern. "Are_ you_ ok?" he asked.

John stared at him in disbelief for a moment. "_Now_ you ask?" he sputtered. "You just went up against Moriarty to demand my release, and it never, at any point, occurred to you to ask if I was alright?"

Sherlock looked down, abashed. "I was more concerned with the simple fact that you were here," he mumbled. "But, John, I am concerned. It's been . . . years. _Are_ you ok?"

"Yes," John managed finally. "Yes, I'm ok. I don't really remember how I got here, but I expect I was just drugged, so no harm done there."

_"Just_ drugged?!" Sherlock exclaimed. "John, that could be _serious!_ Do you know what they dosed you with?"

"Um, no," John admitted. "Last thing I remember, I was walking home. Then I woke up tied to a chair. I feel fine, though. No headache or anything."

"You have _no_ lingering symptoms?" Sherlock demanded. He hurried to John's side and began examining his pupils intently.

"Not that I can notice . . . Sherlock, what are you doing?" John replied, leaning away from Sherlock's scrutiny.

"Just . . . checking," Sherlock muttered. John lifted an eyebrow at him, askance, and Sherlock sighed. "Jim has a drug that he often uses to knock people out," He explained. "It doesn't leave any immediate effects, but it can be . . . extremely damaging in the long term."

"Damaging how?" John asked in alarm.

"Oh, you know," Sherlock murmured vaguely. "Hallucinations and the like. They usually manifest within a couple weeks."

"_Hallucinations?" _John yelped in horror. "This drug is going to make me hallucinate!?"

"Possibly," Sherlock told him. He studied John's expression. "Cheer up," he said bracingly. "Nothing's set in stone. I don't think he gave you a high enough dose to trouble you, anyway. You should be fine unless he doses you again." A dark expression slipped across Sherlock's face. "Try to avoid that," he told John with an air of forced casualty.

John frowned, studying Sherlock's grim countenance. "How do you know?" he asked gently. "Did Moriarty drug _you _with it?"

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly. "All the time. He was always afraid I'd try to escape when we traveled, so he . . . took precautions."

"Oh, God," John said, horrified. "What happened?"

Sherlock smiled faintly. "I had a bit of a psychotic break," he told him cheerfully. "On the bright side, I nearly bit Jim's arm to the bone during one episode," He grinned.

John blinked. "You . . . bit him?"

"Yes, keep up," Sherlock snapped. "I wasn't in my right mind at the time, but it was his own fault, so I refuse to regret it."

John nodded. "I wouldn't mind biting him myself,' he said, half joking, as he glared at the door Moriarty had exited through.

"Don't do that!" Sherlock yelped, panicked. "That's a terrible idea, he'll be furious, _don't_!"

"Why, what did he do to you?" John asked, alarmed. "After you bit him?" The memory of Jim's response earlier was still fresh in his mind. John was sure that it would be a long time before he could forget the sound of Sherlock's head cracking against the wall.

Sherlock shrugged, waving an airy hand. "Don't trouble yourself, John. I've long since recovered," he replied.

John scowled. "I am a bit troubled, actually, Sherlock. He just hit you! I think I've got the right to be concerned."

Sherlock winced. "I've already worried you so much," He said quietly. "Dashing about, nearly getting killed, _actually_ getting killed . . . Christ, John, you've thought me dead for three years. I don't need to do you any more harm."

"I'm actually a little more worried about what's happened to _you_," John retorted. "I thought you were dead. Now I find out that you've been alive the whole time, and not only that, but you were at the mercy of _James Moriarty._ For three years. I'm very worried, Sherlock, and I want to know what happened. Because, honestly, Sherlock, _you _don't seem very _okay._"

Sherlock stared at him. "What, you want the whole story?" he asked in disbelief. "It's a bit long. And not very pleasant."

"Yes," John said firmly. "I want the whole story."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Fine," he said softly, "The whole story." He sat up straight on the couch, steepled his fingers, and began.

"Well," Sherlock said with a sigh, "As you can imagine, it all started shortly before my . . . fall. I knew what Jim was planning, I was able to figure it all out the night before. That's why I went to Molly for help."

"I had a plan," he told John. "A good, solid plan, that would have enabled me to jump from the roof and walk away without a scratch. That's where Molly came in, I needed her help to make me appear . . . dead."

"Yes," John broke in, his voice shaking, "That was . . . quite convincing. How did you manage that, exactly?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly. "It's too complicated to explain now," he said. "I'll tell you later, perhaps. Soon."

He quickly brought them back to the story. "Anyway," he said with a sigh. "I had a plan. But Jim . . . he figured it out. Always one step ahead." Sherlock closed his eyes at the memory.

"He said that he wanted me to come away with him, help him build his empire. He knew my plan, knew there was no escape. There were assassins ready to move, to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade . . ." Sherlock trailed off.

"There was nothing I could do. He faked his own death, I faked mine. And then we left."

John stopped him again. "Can you at least tell me how Moriarty managed to not die?" he demanded. "Because bullet to the head, last I checked, was still fatal."

Sherlock nodded. "That was simple," he explained. "Jim shot himself with a blank. It ruptured his eardrums, bled a fair bit, and knocked him out, but it didn't kill him. One of his men, Moran, helped him off the roof and then came to collect me."

"All right," John said quietly. "So that's how this whole . . . arrangement began. What's happened since then? It's been three years, Sherlock. What happened?"

Sherlock winced. "He took me back to one of his hideouts and set about convincing me to help him conquer the world." He said flatly.

"Convincing?" John repeated warily. "Convincing how?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He didn't have to do much," he said with a sigh. "I knew that he could still have you killed any time he liked, so I did have to curb my actions a little. Once I was quite sure that disobedience would end with you in a morgue, I didn't argue very much."

"So you conquer the world, and cook him dinner?" John asked skeptically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What Jim wants, Jim gets," he explained. "I'm a terrible cook, though," he admitted. "I think it's high time Jim gave up on _that_ particular endeavor."

John laughed a little at that, but quickly became serious. "You said you'd killed people for him," he said quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly. "I killed people. Not very many, but, according to Jim, their deaths were _necessary_. And like I said, what Jim wants, Jim gets."

"But, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "You _killed_ people. How can you possibly-"

Sherlock cut him off. "I had to, John. It was them or you, and I will _always_ choose to save you. You did the same for me, once."

John nodded. He remembered that night. Racing through the darkness to save a man he'd only just met, only to end up in the wrong damn building. He had stared across the alley and seen Sherlock holding that pill, and in that moment, he'd known, without a shadow of a doubt, that he needed to save Sherlock Holmes. He'd also known that Sherlock was out of his bloody mind, but that hadn't been _nearly_ as important.

So, the first day John Watson met Sherlock Holmes, he'd shot a murderous cabbie in his service. And, years later, Sherlock had killed strangers to preserve John's life.

John took a deep breath. "What else happened, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled faintly. "Well, you already know about the incident with the knockout drugs," he said, grinning. "Jim was . . . most put out when he realized that he'd have to spend hours on small planes with me _conscious_ next to him, but he got over it."

Sherlock tensed suddenly. "John, um, there are some things you should know about, well, other drugs." He fiddled anxiously with his sleeves.

John looked at him in surprise. He'd known that Sherlock used to take drugs. Lestrade's 'drugs bust' had made that abundantly clear right from the beginning. It hadn't occurred to John, however, that Sherlock would start using again. "What kind of drugs?" he asked warily.

"Just . . . cocaine," Sherlock explained. "Morphine, sometimes, when I can't sleep." He looked at John with pleading eyes. "Please don't be upset," he begged. "I knew you wouldn't approve, but I _had_ to. I'd go mad, living with him, if I didn't have _something_ to take the edge off."

John nodded understandingly. He was actually just astonished that Sherlock would take the time to fret over John's opinion before taking the drugs. They were miles and years apart, and Sherlock had still worried what his doctor would think. "It's ok," John reassured him. "I don't blame you, I'm sure Moriarty must be terrible to be around."

"Yeah," Sherlock agreed. "Especially when he's drunk, or bored, or his plans go wrong . . ." he trailed off into silence, staring intently at the floor.

"Are you ok?" John asked uncertainly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up. "Oh. Yes, I'm fine. Perfectly fine," he added under his breath.

"So is that the story?" John asked. "Any other important points?"

"None come to mind," Sherlock assured him. "That was more or less how I spent the past three years. And you?"

John shook his head. "Job at the hospital. I kept the flat on Baker Street. That's it, more or less," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "You don't update your blog anymore," He said quietly. "I check, sometimes, and I was . . . concerned, by your silence."

John shrugged. "I just didn't have anything to write once you were gone," he said softly.

Sherlock forced a smile. "I always knew I was the only thing you had to write about," he said with a grin. He walked back over to the couch he'd wandered away from during his tale, and flopped down, covering his eyes with one arm.

"I'm going to try to get some sleep," he announced. "I suggest you do the same, since Jim won't be back for hours."

"Um, Sherlock?' John said incredulously. "You may have forgotten, but I _am _actually still tied to a chair. Do you think you could untie me, before you got to sleep?"

Sherlock blinked nervously at John. "I don't think so," he said quietly. "Jim didn't say I was allowed, and he _hates_ it when I untie his prisoners."

"You're going to leave me _tied to a chair_ because Jim didn't say you were allowed to untie me?" John exclaimed in disbelief. "Christ, Sherlock, what's _happened_ to you?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw and turned away from John. "I'm going to sleep," He said flatly, and refused to say another word.

John watched him for a moment, and then gave up and resigned himself to the impossibility of trying to sleep while tied to a chair.


	3. Chapter 3: Bargaining

**Warnings: ****Drug use. Jim. References to torture. You have been warned.**

**A/N: ****New chapter please review!**

Chapter 3: Bargaining

John was wrenched from an uneasy sleep by the sharp motions of Sherlock pacing back and forth across the room, his eyes wild. John stared at him for a moment, at the once-familiar sight that had long since faded into memories that he didn't dare look at too closely. Sherlock, bored again.

"Sherlock, will you stop it?" John snapped before he could remember too clearly the way Sherlock had charged across Baker Street. "You're giving me a headache, and it's bad enough that I've been tied to this bloody chair for a day, without that on top!"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over to John and he stilled for a moment. "Apologies, John," he said quietly. "I didn't realize I'd woken you."

John sighed. "What time is it?" he asked, half-belligerently. "Is it morning yet?"

"It's half five," Sherlock told him. "So technically, yes, it's morning, but Jim won't be back for another few hours. He likes to sleep in." He scowled at the door. "I wish he'd hurry for once," he muttered.

"Me too," John said absently, tugging at the ropes. "Maybe then I can _finally_ stop feeling like my arms are being pulled out of their sockets!" He glared at Sherlock, hoping he'd take the hint.

"I _can't_, John!" Sherlock snapped desperately. "Look, I'd love to untie you. I hate that you're stuck there, and I hate that you're in pain, and I'd like to _skin_ Jim for doing this, but I _can't _do a thing. I'm sorry."

'Why?!" John exploded, exasperation and exhaustion catching up to him. "What's so bad that you can't even _untie me from a chair_?"

Sherlock winced and then answered quietly, staring determinedly at a spot on the floor near John's left foot. "Jim would be _furious_. He would . . ." Sherlock swallowed hard.

"He'd break every bone in my body, and that's just for starters," he said flatly. "Trust me, John, you wouldn't want to see Jim when he's angry, properly angry. Right now, I'm just trying to stop this situation from spiraling completely out of control. Things are bad enough already without me _purposely_ pissing him off, all right?"

"I couldn't agree more," drawled a voice from the doorway. Jim stood there, leaning against the doorframe and smirking at them.

"Jim," Sherlock greeted him coolly. "Greasing door hinges again? I didn't hear you come in."

"Well," Jim said with a faint smile, "I suppose you were a bit distracted. Not really a fair game, I'll admit."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll concede this one to you," he said graciously. "I'm still ahead by . . . what is it, five?"

"This makes four, actually," Jim told him without losing his smile.

"Ah. Well I'll catch up," Sherlock responded easily.

"Um, sorry, but what the _hell_ are you talking about?" John inquired irritably.

"Just a little game of ours," Jim told him cheerily. "I try to catch Sherlock, he tries to catch me first," He smiled at John. "Just for fun, you know, to pass the time. I already won the one that mattered."

John winced at that, glancing at Sherlock, whose face had frozen into an impassive mask. "Did you want something, Jim?" Sherlock demanded angrily. "Why are you up so early?"

"Just came to see if you still wanted to go on our little . . . excursion, today," Jim said, absently examining his fingernails. He glanced up. "I suppose you'll be too busy with your doctor, though."

Sherlock stared at him, a pained expression on his face. He shot John an apologetic look, and then quickly turned back to Moriarty. "Of course I still want to go," He said angrily. "I haven't left the house in almost a month."

"Are you sure?" Moriarty asked, fake concern all over his face. "I mean, we're going to be gone almost nine hours. Anything could happen to poor little Johnny while you're not here to watch him."

"You'll be gone too," Sherlock replied slowly. "What could happen?"

Moriarty smiled smugly. "I'm going. Moran isn't. Johnny's time could end up being . . . rather unpleasant." He shrugged. "You know how Moran is, I'm sure."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock said warily. "No. No, you wouldn't!" He was livid, looking like he was just seconds away from lunging for Moriarty's throat.

Jim smiled at him, unconcerned. "_I'm_ not doing anything, Sherlock. I'm just warning you of the . . . potential risks. If that's a chance you're willing to take, then by all means, get ready to leave. If not, well, you're welcome to wait here. If you don't think you'll get too . . . bored, just waiting."

Sherlock took several deep breaths, running his hands through his hair. He looked at John for a moment, and then turned back to Moriarty, resigned. "I'll stay," He said flatly. "Have fun without me."

"I'll certainly do my best," Jim told him smugly. He turned to leave. "Oh, by the way," he called back over his shoulder. "You can untie John if you want, but you will be staying in there until I get back. Sorry. I'm sure you'll find something to occupy your mind." He slipped through the door and closed it behind him. Sherlock and John watched in silence as the click of the lock sliding into place echoed through the small room.

"Well," John said finally, breaking the silence. "At least he's gone for a while. Can you untie me now?"

Sherlock blinked, breaking out of his reverie and turning from the locked door to smile distractedly at John. "Yes, of course," he assured him quickly, moving to untangle the heavy ropes.

John stretched gratefully, groaning as his strained muscles protested the sudden movement. "Thanks, Sherlock," he said with a smile. He glanced around the room, glad to finally be able to see it properly. He noticed another narrow door on the far side of the room. "What's through there?" he asked curiously, nodding towards the door.

"Bathroom," Sherlock responded morosely, flopping down on the couch. "This place is meant to be a long-term prison, on occasion."

"Oh, thank God," John said, hurrying over to it. At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, he scowled. "I was tied to that chair for almost a day," he snapped. Sherlock shrugged and turned his eyes back to the ceiling.

When John returned a few moments later, he saw with shock that Sherlock was in the midst of withdrawing a needle from his arm. "Sherlock!" he yelped. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock looked up at him, his pupils wide as dimes. He winced. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said quickly. "I knew you'd disapprove, but I did warn you, and anyway, I'm stuck here all day. _In one room._ I thought I was getting out today, and now . . . I have to have _something_ to engage my brain, or I'll go mad."

John shook his head furiously. "You can't keep yourself entertained in my company for a _few hours_?" He demanded. "I was only gone a minute!"

Sherlock scowled. "I haven't been out in ages," he snarled, jumping off the couch. "Jim isn't always around, and when he is, he isn't always very much fun to be around, and there's _nothing to do._ Especially in here." He waved his hand furiously at the small, bare, room.

"Do you have any idea what that's like for me?" he demanded. "I can feel my brain rotting in my skull, John! There's just . . . _nothing_ to think about, and it's driving me insane!" His expression was edging quickly toward manic as the drugs kicked in, and he paced the room in long, angry strides.

"But, Sherlock," John began unhappily.

"John, you're wonderful company," Sherlock broke in before he could finish. "But you can't hope to keep me entertained for nine hours."

"What do you intend to do for nine hours, then, now that you're high?" John asked belligerently.

Sherlock smiled brightly, his whole demeanor changing with the question. "Glad you asked," he said happily. "I intend to work on my escape plan."

"Your . . . escape plan?" John said in surprise. "You're planning to escape?"

"Of course, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. "This was never a _permanent_ situation. Now that you're here, the plan will have to be moved up a bit, though," he said seriously.

"What's the plan?" John asked cautiously.

"Oh, you'll love it," Sherlock said, a predatory grin slipping across his face. "Jim will never even know what hit him."


	4. Chapter 4: Surprise

**A/N:**** New chapter, sorry it's late. Please read and review!**

**Warnings:**** Swearing, violence, references to drug use.**

Chapter 4: Surprise

"So what _is _it?" John asked eagerly. "How are we getting out of here?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced away. "I can't tell you _now_," he said, rolling his eyes as if that should be obvious. "This room is bugged, John. If I tell you the plan, then Jim will know exactly what it is and he'll be able to stop us."

John blinked. "But you've already said so much about having the plan. Why did you mention it at all if you were so worried about Moriarty finding out?"

"He knows I have a plan," Sherlock said, exasperated. "Jim isn't stupid, he knows that I've been planning and plotting since I got here. He's just confident in his ability to stop me from actually _succeeding _at any of them."

"Well, that's comforting," John snapped. "If he's so confident, why do you think he won't be able to stop you this time?"

"Leave it, John," Sherlock ordered icily. "I have everything under control, and I'll tell you what you need to know when the time comes. For now, I just need you to trust me, ok?"

"Yeah," John said, sighing. "I trust you, Sherlock. You know I always trust you." He laughed a little. "I shot a man for you about a day after we met, Sherlock, and I know that this is hardly the time to _stop_ trusting you."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, John. I'm delighted that you have such faith in me. Now, shut up. I need to go to my mind palace." He reclined on the sofa and shut his eyes, already hyper focused and deep in thought.

John blinked at him for a moment, surprised by the abrupt dismissal, and then realized that this was exactly the way Sherlock had always been. Three years was just a long damn time, and he wasn't used to the way Sherlock was just so overwhelmingly . . . Sherlock. No matter what other changes had been wrought in him, it was comforting to know that Sherlock was still perfectly willing to dismiss people so he could go to his mind palace.

John glanced around the room and realized that his options were rather limited if he wanted to sit down. He sighed and flopped back into the chair that he'd been tied to. It was actually fairly comfortable, without the ropes. He settled down and fixed his eyes on the door, waiting for Moriarty to come back while Sherlock plotted behind him.

After almost three hours had passed in this way, John heard footsteps approaching the door. He stood up hastily, wishing he had his gun. Moriarty wasn't supposed to be back for another six hours, and he suspected that no one else in this place was likely to be any friendlier.

"Sherlock!" he called warningly.

"John, I'm busy," Sherlock responded absently.

"I know," John snapped, "But there's someone at the door."

There was a long silence behind him, and then Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh and called out, "You might as well come in, Colonel, and stop lurking outside the door. We know you're there."

The doorknob gave the distinctive click of unlocking, and then the door swung open to reveal a tall, blonde-haired man grinning smugly. "_You_ didn't notice I was there," he said to Sherlock cheerfully. "It doesn't count if someone else tells you."

Sherlock glared coldly at him. "I was in my mind palace. John was guarding the door. Besides, I knew _who _you were at once. You're the only person I've ever met to be so fond of lurking in hallways."

The Colonel shrugged. "It's a hobby," he said genially. "People are allowed to have hobbies."

He turned deliberately and smiled at John. "Hello," he said politely. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Colonel Sebastian Moran, but you can call me Seb." He cast an unfriendly glance toward Sherlock. "Sherlock calls me Colonel, as you've already observed, but I'd prefer that you didn't." He grinned charmingly. "I hope you're not _quite _as rude as him," he added with a laugh.

"No one is as rude as him," John said absently. He offered Seb a slightly forced smile. "I'm John," he told him.

Seb laughed at that. "I'm aware," he said cheerfully. "It would have been rather awkward if I'd kidnapped the wrong person."

John processed that, realizing that Seb was probably not nearly as friendly as he was pretending. The kidnapping might not have confirmed that alone, but the way Sherlock was glaring daggers at Seb made John distinctly disinclined to trust him.

"Why _did_ you kidnap me?" John inquired coolly.

Seb waved a hand airily. "That was nothing personal," he assured John. "Jim's orders, that's all. He wanted some leverage over Sherlock."

"He already _had_ leverage," Sherlock snarled furiously, surging to his feet. "He had you and your damn _sniper rifle_ as leverage! There was no reason to kidnap John, not when he could have had you put a bullet in his head from a hundred yards! The _only _reason Jim wanted this was because he thought it would be _funny_ and I _know_ that you agreed wholeheartedly." He stood still, glaring at Seb with the sort of intense hatred that implies an immanent desire to fling someone out a window. At the _very _least.

Seb rolled his eyes. "Of course Jim thought it would be funny," he said irritably. "He was bored. Don't pretend that's a foreign concept to you, Sherlock. Your pupils are still as wide as saucers."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed coldly. "Note my amazing ability to sate my boredom without kidnapping people."

Seb laughed. "Get off your high horse, Sherlock," he said mockingly. "It's not like you've never killed someone just because you were bored. And, as I recall, you said it was better than drugs. I think you used the word "brilliant" more than once, too."

"Wait, what?!" John exclaimed. He spun around to face Sherlock, horrified. "You killed someone because you were bored?"

Sherlock winced. "That wasn't the only reason," he muttered.

"Yes, it was," Sebastian contradicted. "And it's not like it was one time, either. Are you going to tell Johnny all the things you and Jim have been up to while he was playing house with your ghost?" He asked Sherlock.

John was shocked. He had known that Sherlock had been forced to make some difficult decisions during the past few years. Sherlock had already admitted to murder.

But John had been imagining a situation where Sherlock had no choice, where it had been the lives of John and everyone else Sherlock cared about hanging in the balance. What Seb was describing made it sound like it was Sherlock's idea. That he'd been bored and chose to pass the time with murder.

John took a deep breath and reminded himself that Seb's word was not gospel. After all, he'd just met the man and didn't like him. He was pretty sure that that meant he didn't have to believe a word Seb said.

Sherlock looked like he was ready to throw a punch, and Seb had straightened up from where he had been leaning on the doorframe. John suspected that if it came down to a fight Seb would snap Sherlock like a twig, no matter how good a fighter Sherlock was. Seb just had that sort of look to him, like he was a reservoir of violence just waiting to explode. In comparison, Sherlock looked frail and thin, and still drugged half out of his mind.

"Both of you shut up!" John barked at them. "I don't care who killed who right now. What I would like to know, Seb, is why exactly you came to stand in the doorway. You really haven't managed to express a purpose of any kind."

Sherlock glared at Seb for another moment, and then flopped back onto the couch. Seb turned his gaze to John and shrugged. "It was annoying enough having to grab you," he murmured. "I wanted to have a proper chat, with both of us conscious and facing each other. After all, I've spent so many hours of my life pointing a gun at you. I got curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Sherlock mumbled from the couch. John ignored him.

"Fine," he said to Seb. "You wanted to talk. Why exactly have you been so careful not to take a single step inside this room?" he asked calmly.

Seb looked surprised. "You noticed," he said with a smile. "Jim told me to stay out," he told him with a sigh. "Apparently Sherlock doesn't trust me near you, and since he's being so _good_ about the whole thing, he deserves a reward." He glanced at Sherlock. "Lovely reward, hmm?"

Sherlock gave him a horrified look. "Jim thinks I'm being _good_ about this?" he asked in disbelief. "What reaction was he _expecting_?"

Seb grinned. "I think he was rather hoping you'd try to rip his throat out with your teeth," he said with a smirk. "But you haven't even taken a swing, so . . ." he shrugged. "Reward."

"Maybe I _will_ rip his throat out the next time I see him," Sherlock snapped. "And by the way, I'm fairly certain he _didn't _mean that you could stand in the doorway for as long as you liked when he said you couldn't come in."

"Going to tell on me?" Seb asked sarcastically.

Sherlock blinked at him, and then smiled slowly. "No need," he said cheerfully. His eyes slid behind Seb and locked with Jim's.

Seb spun around, terror flashing across his features at the sight of Moriarty.

"Honey, I'm home," Jim said calmly, and shoved a taser against Sebastian's chest. Seb screamed in pain at he crumpled, convulsing, to the floor, and Sherlock relaxed against the couch with a satisfied smile.


	5. Chapter 5: Welcome Home

**A/N:**** New chapter, read and review!**

**Warnings:**** Swearing, violence, torture, and Jim. Enjoy!**

Welcome Home

Sherlock smirked at Jim as he sauntered farther into the room. "You weren't gone very long," he said knowingly.

"Of course I wasn't," Jim said cheerfully. "Your brother is quite clever that way. Seems to enjoy ruining things almost as much as you do."

"Well," Sherlock sighed, "What do you expect when you leave me behind?"

"Wait, hold on, _what_?" John broke in. He stared at Sherlock. "Mycroft knows you're alive? Mycroft _knows_ you're alive?! That bastard's been lying to me for three years!" he shouted furiously.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, taken aback by the sudden outburst. "Well, of course _he _knows, John. He's _Mycroft._ It's nearly impossible to keep a secret from him."

Jim smiled. "Aw, thank you, Sherlock," he laughed.

Sherlock glared at him. "Didn't mean it as a compliment," he said coldly. Jim shrugged and smirked at him.

John paced back and forth, ignoring their bickering. Of course Mycroft would know, he thought. He runs every spy network in Britain, and it's not like Moriarty was being _subtle_ about this. What bothered John most, though, was that Mycroft had _lied_ to him. Told him to give up, stop deluding himself, Sherlock was dead. And John had believed him, because he was bloody _Mycroft _and if Sherlock was alive, Mycroft would know. He had never thought that _maybe Mycroft was lying._

"John?" Sherlock said warily. John looked . . . furious. Madder than Sherlock had ever seen him, at any rate. Sherlock could understand John being upset with Mycroft for not telling him, but this reaction seemed a bit . . . extreme. "John, are you alright?" he asked cautiously.

"What?" John looked up. "Yeah. Fine. Bloody _wonderful._" He looked ready to shoot someone.

Sherlock and Jim both studied him curiously, trying to figure out what was the matter, their expressions nearly identical confusion. Suddenly Jim's eyebrows shot up with surprise, and he laughed. "Oh," he said, laughing again. "That . . . that is just beautiful." He turned to Sherlock, grinning. "Sherlock, remind me to send the Iceman a fruit basket," he said. Jim glanced back at John and started laughing again. "This is really just _too good._"

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "What is it?" He stared back at John, his eyes darting across him, deciphering clues. "Dammit, Jim, what did I miss?"

"Mycroft convinced Johnny here to give up," Moriarty declared cheerfully. He looked at Sherlock with delight. "He gave up on you, Sherlock, because your brother lied." Jim shook his head in mock sadness. "I guess no one still believes in Sherlock Holmes," he added coldly.

Sherlock looked at him, shocked, and then at John. "You gave up?" he asked blankly. "I thought . . ." he stopped. "Everyone said that you were still the only one who thought I was alive," he murmured.

John flinched. "Sherlock . . . it's not that I didn't still believe in you, I just- I didn't think Mycroft would lie about that."

"Mycroft would lie about anything if it suited him!" Sherlock shouted. "It's his fault this happened, or did you forget about that?" he stormed away from John, stopping at the far wall. "Since when is _Mycroft_ a reliable source of information?" he asked without looking at John.

John's response was cut off by a groan from the doorway. Everyone turned, startled. They had nearly forgotten Moran, who was slowly regaining consciousness after the taser blast. "Oww . . ." he moaned, struggling to sit up. He squinted at Jim blearily. "The hell was that for?" he demanded belligerently.

Jim's expression went cold as he fixed Sebastian with a long stare. Moran paled visibly, seeming to realize the stupidity of what he had said as Jim stalked slowly toward him. "Do you really have to ask that?" Jim asked softly.

"N-No, sir," Moran stuttered, terrified by the look in Moriarty's eyes. "I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come near the room," he apologized desperately.

Moriarty smiled at him, seeming to relax a little, and Seb breathed out in relief, hoping he was forgiven. He wasn't. Without warning, Jim slammed his foot into Seb's chest, eliciting a strangled scream as ribs cracked loudly.

John stumbled backwards in horror, swearing under his breath at the sudden display of violence. Moran was still trying to apologize through a mouthful of blood as Jim kicked his ribs to pieces with a calm, almost surgical precision.

Sherlock eyed the scene calmly, mentally calculating exactly how much damage was being done. "Jim, if you'd like him to survive you should probably stop now," he told him.

Jim paused, foot poised for another kick while Sebastian gurgled weakly on the floor. "Are you certain?" he asked hopefully. "I wasn't quite done."

Sherlock shrugged. "He might have a rib or two left that isn't currently shredding his lungs," he said with a sigh, "but I'm not a doctor, in case you've forgotten." He wandered over to the couch and flopped down dramatically. "Ask John," he said, waving a hand at where John was standing frozen, transfixed by the gruesome sight of Moran. At the sound of his name, he glanced up.

Jim looked at him disdainfully. "I don't see how he can be such a _wonderful_ doctor if he can't even tell a live body from a dead one," he snapped pointedly. Sherlock snorted. "That was one time," he retorted. "And you can hardly blame John for that."

Jim sighed. "Fine," he conceded. He turned to John. "Well?" he asked impatiently. "Will he live?"

John blinked at him for a moment, shocked, and then turned toward the body on the floor, blinking rapidly. He quickly noted the form of Sebastian's misshapen ribcage, trying to determine which ribs were broken. The blood dripping out of his mouth was also a distinct concern, but John decided that the amount, while not _good_, was not enough for Moran to be bleeding out through his lungs. However, the fact that nearly all of Seb's ribs seemed to be broken suggested that this was not a permanent situation.

John turned back to Moriarty and said hastily, "He needs medical care immediately or he'll definitely die. The way he's breathing a piece of his ribs could go into his heart at any moment, not to mention the damage he's doing to his lungs. He could die at any second."

"Told you," Sherlock called carelessly from the couch. Jim rolled his eyes at Sherlock and turned back to John.

"Fine. Fix him," he ordered.

John stared at him in disbelief. "I can't just 'fix him'," he snapped. "I don't have any medical supplies, and I can't exactly operate on him _here_. He needs surgery. Take him to a hospital."

"Yeah, that would go over well," Jim said sarcastically. "I do have a medical bay here, you can do the surgery there." He took a mobile phone out of his pocket and typed swiftly, sending someone a text. Within moments, two of Moriarty's lackeys arrived with a stretcher. They blanched at the sight of Sebastian.

"Take him to the medical bay," Jim ordered. "And accompany _Doctor _Watson there as well." He smiled at John as Moran was hauled onto the stretcher, apparently unconscious. "Will that suit you?" he queried blandly.

John looked uncertainly at Sherlock, not at all comfortable leaving the room without him. "Go," Sherlock said without opening his eyes. "You'll be fine, as will the Colonel, unfortunately. Now go, I have things to do."

John thought it rather likely that Sherlock had no plans other than enjoying a drug-fueled trip through his mind palace, but he headed for the door. After all, he was still a doctor, and he felt honor-bound to help. He hurried out of the room in the wake of the stretcher, leaving Jim and Sherlock behind him.

Sherlock glanced up when John was gone, and noted that Jim was still standing there, glaring at him. "What?" he inquired icily.

"You have ruined my entire day," Jim informed him flatly. "This morning's plans fell apart, and now I have to spend the rest of the day waiting to see if Seb lives. I had _plans,_ Sherlock."

Sherlock recognized the dangerous tone in Jim's voice and sat up quickly. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't kidnapped John," he pointed out warily.

Jim shrugged. "I was bored," he said flatly. "And, now that my day is shot, I'm _bored_ again." He advanced slowly.

Sherlock jumped up from the couch, scrambling away from him. He was certain that he would be John's second patient of the day if he didn't think of something fast. He hurriedly went over plans in his mind, various distractions he'd thought up for Jim, hoping a good one would occur to him. Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck him. It was an easy was to kill two birds with one stone, and it was _sure _to distract Jim.

"Why don't we send Mycroft his thank you present?" Sherlock suggested desperately, praying that Jim would go for it. Jim paused, thinking it over.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked curiously, and Sherlock smiled with relief. Jim was going for it.

"Activate a few of those . . . 'nests of discord' you've been stirring up," he explained. "Mycroft will think there's a bigger plan, and he'll have to send his agents to investigate every occurrence in case that's it."

A manic grin spread across Jim's face as he considered the idea. "Lure away the tin soldiers to make the puppet master dance," he murmured nonsensically. Sherlock understood, though, and a similar grin drifted across his own face. Mycroft deserved it, for upsetting John.

"We'll make him dance," Sherlock agreed quietly. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"

Jim nodded slowly. "You are an _endless_ distraction," he told Sherlock seriously, and Sherlock smiled, unable to prevent himself from feeling the same way about Jim.

Who could be bored with a distraction like him?


	6. Chapter 6: Watch Him Dance

**A/N:**** I'm really, really sorry about the delay, but here's a new chapter for you! Please read, review, and enjoy!**

**Warnings:**** Not much, actually. Some language.**

Watch Him Dance

Sherlock was grinning at the TV screen when John walked back into the room. Sebastian's surgery had taken _hours_, and John was absolutely exhausted. He was also bloodstained, desperate for a shower, and in no mood to deal with Sherlock. But Sherlock looked far to thrilled by the screen for John's comfort, so as he walked by he craned his neck to get a glimpse of what he was watching. John stopped dead.

"Sherlock," he asked quietly. "Why, exactly, are you smiling like a lunatic over a war in Argentina?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock glanced up from the screen and blinked at John, obviously not having heard a word of the question.

"The _war_, Sherlock," John repeated irritably. "Why do you look so damn delighted by it?"

"Oh, that," Sherlock replied happily. "Jim started that war with two phone calls. _Two,_ John, isn't that amazing? Mycroft is going to be _livid._"

John blinked at him, not remotely following Sherlock's train of thought. "Wait, _what_?" he demanded. "You're happy because . . . Moriarty started a war? How the hell is that a good thing?"

Sherlock waved a hand carelessly. "The war isn't the important part. It could have been anything, but Jim had this planned anyway, so we went with that. No, John, the important thing is that Mycroft has to go all the way to Argentina. He has no idea what's going on, so he'll have to check on it himself, and when he gets there and hears about Russia, well," Sherlock grinned, shaking his head with delight at the sheer brilliance of this plan.

John was not nearly as amused. He was currently wavering between horrified and furious, and desperately hoped that Sherlock was going to give an actual _decent_ explanation of his behavior sometime soon.

"Sherlock," John began cautiously, when no other explanation seemed forthcoming. "Are you telling me that . . . you and Moriarty started a _war_ to piss off your brother?"

"Yes, of course, keep up," Sherlock told him cheerfully. "Mycroft was, apparently, a complete _arse_ while I've been gone. He deserves to have to fly around the world trying to figure out what Jim's up to. Besides," he added, a little more quietly, "Jim was bored. I had to come up with _something_."

John was leaning toward furious at this point. He couldn't _believe _that Sherlock would do that, no matter how angry he was with Mycroft. "People are _dying _in that war, Sherlock!" He shouted. "Do you not care about that anymore, or did living with Jim just push you into being a full-blown psychopath!?"

"I am _not _a psychopath," Sherlock said, his voice frigid with anger.

"Then why?" John asked more calmly. "Sherlock, they're people. And they're dying for . . . what, exactly? A feud with your brother? Jim's entertainment? Yours?"

Sherlock stared blankly at the screen, John's questions racing through his head. Did he care about people dying? Of course. He was a detective, he helped save them. Maybe he did enjoy the puzzle, but the cases . . . he had been doing good. He was sure of it.

He knew, though, that this was different. Starting wars to keep Jim occupied was not a noble pursuit. It was fun of course, the way anything exciting was fun, even if it was also dangerous, deadly, selfish . . . and wrong. Which this most certainly was.

But Jim had been bored before, and now . . . now he wasn't. And that certainly made Sherlock's own world quite a bit safer, something which was exponentially more important now that John was here. How was he supposed to care about people halfway around the world when John was in _mortal danger_ every second he spent in Jim's house?

Sherlock jumped to his feet and paced towards John. "I care," he said flatly. "But, trust me, John; we'll all be a lot happier if Jim has something to keep him occupied." He forced a smile. "It's one little war, and it would have happened anyway," he offered hopefully. "Don't be mad."

John stared back at Sherlock with a vague feeling of disbelief. He knew that things had changed in the years Sherlock had been gone, but he hadn't imagined _this._ Sherlock had justified _starting a war_ to himself, and he expected John to go along with it. But John wasn't _blind_. He had seen Sherlock watching the news, like it was thrilling, and wonderful, and the best thing he'd seen all day. This wasn't just about Jim.

"Sherlock," John snapped. "You were watching the _war footage_ like it was . . . _wonderful,_ or something. Do you expect me to believe it was only for Jim's sake?"

Sherlock flinched back, surprised. "I wasn't . . . that wasn't, exactly . . ." He took a deep breath and tried again. "I was just impressed," he said quietly. "By the, the _planning_ that had to be done for it to work. I just thought it was . . . amazing. That he could start a war by picking up the phone."

He looked away, and added under his breath, "It _wasn't_ the dying I liked."

John sighed. He couldn't deal with this, not now, not while he was still splattered with Moran's blood. He needed to shower, and he needed to think about what Sherlock had said.

"Fine," he told Sherlock with a sigh. "Fine, I just- I need a shower, ok? We'll talk later." He headed for the bathroom, wincing as he ran his fingers through his hair and they caught in tangles of dried blood. The war could wait.

Mycroft tapped his fingers impatiently against the armrest of his seat and checked his watch for the fourth time in two minutes. When he had first heard about the . . . _incident_ in Argentina, he hadn't worried very much. It was a minor conflict, and hardly the first that James Moriarty had orchestrated. He had been surprised, though, having just stopped the incident which he was sure had been Moriarty's top priority event.

However, the man was nothing if not unpredictable, so Mycroft had looked into it a bit farther. He feared that he was missing some crucial detail, and he was right. Upon examining the origin of the conflict, he was forced to conclude that this particular war had been arranged by none other than his brother. And if Sherlock was involved, Mycroft had to investigate.

When the plane finally landed, Mycroft was ushered into a small and very secret base so he could speak with the commander of the rebelling faction.

"So, what made you choose _now_ for your . . . revolution?" he asked the commander coldly.

The man flinched, already beginning to sweat under Mycroft's stare. "N-no reason," he stuttered nervously. "Seemed like a good time, is all." He smiled nervously, clearly hoping that no further questions would be asked. He was disappointed.

"Where did you get the funds?" Mycroft demanded. "Your operation was floundering a week ago, so I know that you didn't come up with enough money for a war on your own."

The commander jolted upright, shocked. "How did you know that?" he yelped. "Everyone thought we were well funded!"

Mycroft laughed softly. "I didn't," he replied. "Now, how long have you been working with James Moriarty?"

The commander went pale.

Mycroft was about to board a plane returning to England, having already determined that there didn't appear to be anything important happening in Argentina, when he got the call. Five state officials assassinated in Russia. The police had no leads, and Mycroft's office had quickly realized that Moriarty may as well have signed his name to it. Mycroft arranged another flight.

Halfway across the ocean he got word of a bombing in France that he knew just from glancing at the report was planned by Sherlock. Before he could make a single arrangement he was informed that nineteen separate civil wars had erupted in Africa, but it wasn't until he saw the clip of the oil field that had been set afire in Saudi Arabia, that he began to really worry.

Mycroft couldn't see a connection between the events, but he knew there _had_ to be. James Moriarty might be a madman, but he had never done something this blatant before. And there was _always _a reason. Mycroft strongly suspected that these events were intended to disguise a deeper threat, but he had no way of knowing what that threat was. More importantly, Sherlock was clearly involved in this.

He was well aware of the events that had led to his brother's unhappy partnership with Moriarty, but he had no other solution to offer. There was no way to retrieve Sherlock without risking John, and Sherlock would never agree to any plan that endangered John Watson.

Mycroft felt, however, that, even stuck as he was, Sherlock should make _some_ effort to not get innocent people killed, and he usually did. But these events . . . Mycroft closed his eyes in contemplation. Sherlock didn't seem to _care_.

When the phone rang, he answered it on autopilot. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Anthea," the cheerful voice on the other end told him. "I've got your schedule set up for the next few days so you can check on these hotspots. I'm sending it to you now."

Mycroft opened his laptop and scanned the schedule. He was going to be flying all over the world, rather quickly too. Mycroft was a man who had always preferred to remain behind a desk, and schedules like this one tended to make him cringe.

"Thank you, Anthea," he said, closing his laptop screen with a sigh. He was still mulling over Sherlock's behavior as he lowered the phone. _'He doesn't seem to __**care**__,'_ whispered through his mind, and suddenly, horribly, Mycroft was struck by an awful epiphany. He jerked the phone back to his ear.

"Anthea!" he barked. "Forget the schedule for a moment. I need a status report on John Watson, _now_." He struggled to remain calm as Anthea checked.

"Well?" Mycroft demanded, sick with dread.

"Mr. Holmes," Anthea said quietly, returning to the phone. "I'm sorry; I don't know how this happened . . ."

"Just tell me," Mycroft ordered grimly.

He heard Anthea take a deep breath, and then say softly, "He's missing. Hasn't been seen in almost three days and we have . . . no intel on his whereabouts. I'm sorry."

Mycroft stared at the phone in his hand for a moment as he acknowledged that his worst fear had come true. With perfect calm, and without bothering to end the call, Mycroft gently snapped his phone in half, then snapped each piece again in turn. Moriarty had John.


	7. Chapter 7: Fight or Flight

**A/N****: Have a new chapter! Please, please, please review! I need feedback! Enjoy!**

**Warnings****: Violence and language.**

Fight or Flight

Moriarty barreled into the room like the hounds of hell were chasing him and nearly fell over as he spun frantically, trying to locate Sherlock, who was lying on the floor in front of the couch, having chosen to use the seat as a foot rest while he gazed contemplatively at the ceiling. He barely twitched at Moriarty's entrance, which had nearly given John a heart attack.

"Sherlock!" Moriarty yelped delightedly, finally having found him. "I have news! Important, wonderful, exciting news, so _LISTEN TO ME!_" His voice rose to a shriek as he realized that Sherlock hadn't even glanced up.

Sherlock's eyes snapped onto him at last, and, with a put-upon sigh, he inquired, "What's your brilliant news, Jim? Someone else die?"

Jim scowled at Sherlock, infuriated by his disregard. "No," he snarled, furious but still eager to share. "Your brother knows I have John."

Sherlock bolted up, scrambling to his feet and staring at him with shock. Jim smiled, delighted to finally have the detective's undivided attention. "How do you know that?" Sherlock demanded.

"He called," Moriarty said happily. "Although . . ." he added, suddenly switching gears, "One of these days I really should figure out how he got my private mobile number. Do you have any idea?"

Sherlock waved away his question irritably. "That's not important. How did Mycroft know _you_ took John? You should've been the last suspect, not the first."

Jim shrugged. "Evidently he detected something a bit . . . off, about our latest endeavor." He rolled his eyes. "I think he's trying to get into the detective business while you're gone."

"What does he want?" Sherlock asked flatly. "He knows John's here, fine. I knew he'd realize sooner or later, though I _thought_ he'd be too busy to check so soon." He shot a glare at Moriarty, then took a deep breath. "So what did he say he wants?"

Jim bounced up and down with delight at the question he'd obviously been waiting for. "He wants me to void our agreement and let you go because I broke it when I took John!" he announced in a frantic rush. He took a deep breath, finally settling down, and smiled at Sherlock. "Isn't it wonderful?" he asked quietly. "Your brother won't abide by my rules anymore. I _changed the game_, Sherlock. Do you get it?"

Sherlock didn't respond. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his eyes darted back and forth as he absorbed the new data. John looked at him desperately, hoping he would reply and explain what the hell was going on, because John definitely did not get it. All he knew was that Moriarty was far happier than he should be, which was enough to make him, like any reasonable person, distinctly nervous.

He took a deep breath and determined that the silence had lasted long enough, and he needed a goddamn _explanation_ before he hit someone. They were discussing _him_ after all. He really ought to be included. "What game?" he demanded boldly, startling both Sherlock and Jim, who had been engaged in what looked remarkably similar to a staring match. They both snapped their heads around to regard him as though he were a particularly fascinating lab experiment, but neither offered a reply.

"What _game_?" John repeated, louder. "Can someone please, for God's sake, tell me what you're on about?"

Jim blinked at him. "The _game_, John, the _great _game. The one we've been playing our whole lives." He looked at Sherlock, waiting for him to jump in.

"'The game' is just what he calls it," Sherlock offered. "It's just . . . distractions. Finding distractions. Like the cases were, and like Jim's cases are. But now that Jim broke our agreement, everything will have to change, since I suppose we'll have to work _against_ Mycroft now, instead of around him." He smiled hopefully at John. "Does that explain it?" he asked.

John considered Sherlock's words. His explanation was a far better attempt than Moriarty's, at least, but John still wasn't certain he knew what was going on. The part about distraction he understood. He couldn't have spent two years living with Sherlock and not picked up on his need for endless entertainment and distraction, and he supposed Moriarty was the same way, but, for now, that wasn't his main concern.

"All right," he said warily. "Things will change because you're- challenging Mycroft, or something. Fine. What's going to happen to me, in your new game?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said at the exact moment Moriarty said, "We'll see." Sherlock rounded on Jim with ferocity in his eyes. "You _can't_," he snarled. "I don't care if the arrangement's void. You've got what you wanted. Mycroft will chase you to the end of the earth, and I suppose I'll be there with you. But you can't keep John. He was a means to an end, and we both know it. Now you've got your end, congratulations. So _**stop**_."

Moriarty grinned, pure, gleeful insanity shining in his eyes. "_No_," he said simply. "I don't want to stop. I'm having _fun_, Sherlock. It seems you're more fun when Johnny's around, so I'm _keeping_ him around. Besides," he added with a shrug, "We do need a doctor around here."

Sherlock looked ready to gear up for another argument, but John had had enough. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Sherlock didn't have a prayer of changing Jim's mind, and John wasn't in the mood to watch him try. In the few days he'd been there he had watched Sherlock get bounced off walls, help start civil wars, and watch calmly while someone got beaten to near death, and the one thing John had learned was that arguing with Jim ended bloody. And Sherlock knew it.

Right now, though, Sherlock was desperate, determined, and, John suspected, high as a kite. This was one thing he would fight to the end, and John didn't want to know what that looked like. "Don't I get a say?" he appealed, hoping that if he brought some _sanity _to the table they could all leave intact.

"No, darling, of course you don't get a say!" Moriarty exclaimed, laughing. "Neither does Sherlock, so don't feel bad about that. You're staying right here, no matter _how_ you feel about it."

Ok, reasoned argument was out. John snarled, "Well, there's two votes I leave, and only one vote I stay. I'll be going, then."

"This is not a democracy," Moriarty informed him, smirking. "I am the sovereign, and, vote all you like, I. Don't. _Care._"

Everyone has a breaking point, and John, well, he'd had a rough few days. Without another word, he lunged for Moriarty, fist cracking against his jaw. He could hear Sherlock yelling something at him, but the blood roaring in his ears made it impossible to make out the words. John slammed his fist into Moriarty's face again with no thought but to cause as much harm as possible.

He wanted revenge for being kidnapped and drugged and held prisoner. He wanted revenge for having his best friend snatched away from him, the only good thing he'd had in _years_, and he wanted to avenge Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to be brilliant and _good _and help people, not be warped into a shadow who didn't care who paid for his distractions. John was absolutely _furious_, and had every intention of making Jim envy Sebastian's good health.

He swung back his fist, intending to bring it down on Jim's nose, anticipating the crunch of cartilage and bone, when thin fingers latched onto his arm from behind and Sherlock's voice, nearly unrecognizable from panic, shrieked in his ear, "JOHN, STOP!"

He twisted around to see Sherlock behind him, his face white with terror. "Sher-" he started, frustrated. The rest of the word became a choked-off yelp as Moriarty's fingers locked around his throat. John's wide-eyed stare found the man beneath him, who was bleeding and bruised and smiling like it was his birthday and Christmas, all rolled into one, as he tightened his grip on John's neck. John clawed at his hand, but his efforts were useless against Moriarty's iron grip, and soon black spots were dancing across his vision. Just when he was certain he was about to pass out, the grip loosened, and John sprawled sideways across the floor, gasping and coughing while Jim slowly pushed himself to his feet.

"John," Moriarty said gently, "That was a very stupid thing to do. You're so _ordinary_, John! Fight or flight, and I wouldn't let you leave." He laughed. "I really _did_ see that coming. Thanks for your help, Sherlock, by the way," he called absently over his shoulder.

Sherlock didn't reply, and Moriarty paced closer to John, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat. From the floor, John offered him the most defiant glare he could muster while still barely able to breathe. Jim crouched down next to him and reached toward him. John flinched back in fear, but Jim just patted his hair gently.

"Look, Johnny, I understand. I'm not even mad." John eyed him cautiously. He doubted he'd be forgiven so quickly, especially after what happened to Seb. Moriarty smiled at him again, and then stood up. "However, my dear, I really just _can't_ let you get away with that. Sor-ry," he sing-songed brightly. Then he drew back his foot and slammed it into the side of John's head. The last thing John saw was an explosion of sparks and Jim's satisfied grin as he blacked out.


	8. Chapter 8: Finding Fault

**A/N****: New chapter! There will be more soon. Please, please, please review!**

**Warnings****: Violence. Heaps of it. Some language, too.**

Finding Fault

Darkness competed with brightly colored sparks in John's vision as he struggled toward consciousness. His head felt like a madman with a hammer had been unleashed inside his skull, which, John reflected, wasn't far from the truth, if you shifted the position of the madman a bit. Though he did hope that no actual hammers had been involved.

His headache wasn't being helped by all the shouting, either. John was still too far under to make out words, but the clamor around him was unmistakable. One of the voices - Sherlock's?- rose hysterically and assembled itself briefly in John's ears. Unfortunately, "-kill you, I swear, if you even-!" was all he could make out before the sound once again dissolved into static.

John fought to wake up, suddenly, irrationally, terrified by the words. His brain was still too fuzzy for him to have a clear grasp of the situation, but he was certain that whatever was happening needed to be stopped immediately. His mind began to clear, and another burst of sound broke through. This was a different voice- Jim's, he was certain of it- saying, "-agreement is _void_, darling, I'll do what I like-" before Sherlock interrupted him furiously, "To _hell_ with the agreement, I'll _kill_ you!"

"Sh'rlock?" John slurred weakly, still weighed down by the ache in his skull. He tried to open his eyes, and was immediately assaulted by an unreasonably bright light that seemed to be aimed directly over his face. He squeezed his eyes shut again. "Sherlock?" he asked, more clearly.

They had both fallen silent when he spoke, but the second query snapped Sherlock out of his brief daze. He had been _frantic_ with terror when he saw John pass out, and he nearly fainted with relief himself when he heard him finally speak. "Yes- John, I'm right here," he assured his friend, hurrying to his side. "Are you alright?"

"Concussion," John mumbled, self-diagnosing although still only half-conscious. "And my throat hurts," he added, wincing slightly as he spoke.

"Yes, that's to be expected," Sherlock told him, struggling to remain calm. "Jim was strangling you, remember?" John frowned, and Sherlock could almost see the memories re-assembling themselves behind tightly closed eyelids. At last, after seconds that felt like decades, John opened one eye a crack to fix Sherlock with a withering glare.

"Your fault," John informed him belligerently, and Sherlock stumbled backwards, hating the truth of it. He turned away and muttered in the vague direction of the floor, "Yes, I know."

He thought about explaining, but he knew it would do no good. He had hardly been thinking clearly at the time, and his reaction had been a combination of instinct and terror. Impossible to explain, especially to John. John didn't have Sherlock's memories of the past three years. He hadn't lived under Jim Moriarty's draconian rule, and he had never had to learn what happened to dissenters.

Sherlock's only intent had been to stop John from signing his own death warrant, but he knew that his actions would be, to John, the worst kind of betrayal. So he fell silent and paced away, past where Jim lounged in the armchair. John was lying on the couch, where Sherlock had hoisted him after he passed out, so the only remaining chair was the uncomfortable wooden one. Sherlock curled himself into it and began to intently study the pattern in the carpet, ignoring John.

Moriarty and John both turned to study Sherlock, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't make a sound, continuing to act as thought they weren't there. "Well," Moriarty said finally, when it was clear no more was forthcoming, "I suppose clever explanations _do_ get boring after a while, even for the great Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock flinched slightly at this, but didn't otherwise react, and Jim turned back toward John with a smile.

"How's the concussion feeling?" he asked cheerfully, "You've got a _hilarious _bruise, you know. I can actually see the tread pattern," he added, flexing his bloodied shoe.

John bristled at that, unable to help himself, and he shot back, "Concussion's doing fine. How's _your_ face? Bruising nicely, I see." He eyed the darkening bruises on Jim's face with a thrill of satisfaction at having made them, and watched as Jim's expression slowly darkened.

"Oh, Johnny, you are going to pay for that," Jim snarled softly. He rose easily from the armchair and drew a wickedly sharp knife from somewhere in his jacket as he advanced toward John.

John swore under his breath, shocked at how quickly that had escalated, and scrambled to get off the couch and _away_ from the psychopath with the knife. However, as he stood up, his head swam with sudden vertigo and he staggered, collapsing on the floor next to the couch. "Goddamn concussion!" he yelped, as he tried and failed to regain his equilibrium.

Jim dropped to the floor beside John and pressed the knife blade against his jugular, manic rage shining in his eyes. John felt another wave of dizziness with the knowledge that he was about to die, and he tuned out Moriarty's voice, which was promising him hell in alarmingly descriptive ways. He looked frantically past Moriarty, and his eyes locked on Sherlock, who was still curled in the chair, staring at the carpet. He didn't look bored anymore, though. He looked terrified.

Sherlock studied the pattern on the floor desperately, his eyes darting back and forth as though if he could just decipher this damn rug John wouldn't die. _Patched ten to twelve years ago, switched threads there, one of the makers was left-handed, two-month-old bloodstain obscuring the vine pattern there, must be my blood from when Jim broke that vase, the thread there is the wrong dye lot- _

He wrenched himself abruptly out of his trance, knowing what he was doing was useless, worse than useless, because _John was going to die._ He raised his eyes and looked at John, who was staring at him with a look of almost . . . regret. John's lips moved, and Sherlock read them easily, feeling each word reverberate in his head. _"Not your fault."_

He stared at John. _What_ wasn't his fault? The events of the day, of the week, of the past _three years_ spun across his brain, and he couldn't think of a single thing that wasn't his fault. But John gave a tiny shake of his head, and Sherlock realized with sudden conviction that, despite whatever words had passed before, John didn't blame him.

John saw understanding and relief wash across Sherlock's face, and he knew that, whatever happened here, at least one thing would be alright. He felt the knife shift, and Moriarty lifted it away from his neck, murmuring something about starting with his fingers. John felt a thrill of pure terror, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the agony he knew was coming.

And then, suddenly, Moriarty was no longer looming over him, and John's eyes popped open in time to see Sherlock yanking Jim away, snarling in a voice rich with righteous fury, "Don't you _dare_!" and John scrambled to his feet as Sherlock's fist broke Jim's nose with a spectacular crack. For a moment, elation thrummed through his blood, and he could almost taste the victory before them.

But then, with a howl of pain and fury, Jim's arm swung forward, the knife still clutched in his fist, finding its target. Sherlock released him and he stumbled backward, grinning madly with blood all down his face, and John felt his knees buckle as all their eyes fixed on the handle of the blade buried in Sherlock's side.

"Oh," Sherlock whispered softly, staring at the darkening handle, and collapsed.

_The first thing Sherlock noticed was the stars. There were too many, far too many, until the night sky was more white than black. It was all wrong, and they wouldn't form constellations, either, none he'd ever seen before, and none he could invent. The stars wouldn't stop shifting long enough to be connected, and when they stilled, however briefly, they defied all order, arraying themselves into impossible shapes that Sherlock couldn't hope to decipher._

_He turned away, searching for something to see besides those damned impossible stars, but there __**was**__ nothing else, not that he could see, and he knew that something was missing. "John?" he called, in sudden remembrance. There was no reply, and he turned, terrified, knowing he was alone._

"_John!" he shouted again. "I meant to save you! Where are you?" The stars blurred as he turned, and bursts of light- not starlight- bled through into his vision. Pain shot through him as the light exploded briefly before him as he toppled once more into darkness._

John couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All he knew was that Sherlock was dead, stabbed saving his life, and that made it his fault, didn't it? He held still, frozen where he had fallen when he saw Sherlock collapse.

Moriarty was shouting something at him, but it didn't register, not at first. Not until Jim hit him across the face and shrieked in his ear, "He's not dead, you idiot, now _save him_!" It was the one bit of information that could matter in that moment, and John propelled himself across the room to Sherlock's side. When he found a pulse, he thought that his own heart would stop from amazement, and soon he was rushing alongside a stretcher toward the medical bay. It wasn't too late.

Jim paced outside the door to the medical bay, waiting for good news. He couldn't decide who he was most furious with, but he suspected it was himself. Because yes, John shouldn't have baited him, and yes, Sherlock shouldn't have punched him, but at the end of the day, who was the one with a knife in his hand?

He tried to remember the days before he had Sherlock, faced with the possibility of their return due to his own _folly_, and shuddered. All those days were nearly blank in his mind, layered over with boredom until the largest inferno could barely spark his interest. Sherlock, though, Sherlock had made it _fun_ again, distracted him, given purpose to the flames. Jim gritted his teeth and glared at the door. Sherlock _had _to live. He wouldn't go back.

Finally, John emerged, looking grim. "Well?" Moriarty ground out, fury and desperation raw in his voice.

"He's alive," John said flatly, and there was no time for relief, because he continued, "but not for long. His kidneys are shutting down from the strain of the stabbing on top of whatever drugs you've been giving him, and dialysis won't hold him for more than a few days, assuming you even _have _a dialysis machine."

"Of course I do. But if his kidneys are bad, just give him a new kidney," Jim ordered without missing a beat.

"I don't exactly have any _spare kidneys_ lying around," John snarled in reply.

"I can take care of that," Moriarty snapped. He checked his watch. "I can have one here in two hours, max."

John spared a moment to give him an incredulous look at that, and then said calmly, "I can't do a transplant by myself. You'd need an entire team of doctors, plus more medical equipment than you have here. If you want him to live, send him to a damn hospital."

He slumped against the wall, as if on the verge of passing out. Jim remembered with alarm that the doctor was still concussed, and almost winced at the thought of him operating in that condition. Well, he thought bitterly, nothing else for it, then. He flipped open his phone and dialed.

"You win, Iceman," he said resignedly. "St. Marks, twenty minutes, and guess what? You can even have them both. This counts for your birthday _and _Christmas, ok?"

He tossed the phone to John, who was staring at him in shock, but still managed to catch it. "Get him ready for transport," Jim snapped. He turned and began to walk away, toward the garage his own escape. He paused for a moment and called back over his shoulder, "Tell Sherlock I'll see him soon." He smiled and added softly to himself, "I do still owe him, after all."


	9. Chapter 9: An Unlocked Door

**A/N****: I am so, so, so sorry about the delay in posting this chapter. I've been embroiled in finals (still am actually) and I haven't had a chance to finish writing this until now. Please forgive me, enjoy, and, as always, review.**

**Warnings****: Not many. Some swearing, but that's really it. **

An Unlocked Door

Sherlock jolted awake and immediately tried to sit up, but the pain that slammed through him quickly prevented the movement. He swore under his breath and reluctantly relaxed, listening to the frantic mechanical beeping slowly even out around him. As the sounds of the room moved into focus, Sherlock realized with sudden horror that they were all wrong. Over the years he'd had all too many chances to memorize the noises of Jim's medical bay, and these were . . . completely different.

Terrified by the sudden unfamiliarity, Sherlock warily tried once more to open his eyes and sit up a little. The sight that greeted him shocked him speechless. He seemed to be in a hospital room. An expensive, private hospital room. And as though that wasn't alarming enough by itself, _Mycroft_ was sitting in a chair near the bed, studying Sherlock and holding an umbrella.

Before he could begin to gather his thoughts enough to process these developments, Mycroft spoke. "How are you feeling?" he inquired coolly. His voice held an air of aloof disinterest, but Sherlock could hear the concern hidden in his brother's question. _"Now he's concerned?" _Sherlock thought furiously. He scowled and glared around the room before reluctantly answering the question.

"I feel absolutely _won_derful, brother-dear," He drawled as sarcastically as he could. "I do seem to recall getting _stabbed_, though, so would you mind _terribly_ telling me what the hell happened and where the hell I am?"

Mycroft barely managed to repress his flinch at his brother's sing-songing voice, knowing that Sherlock was intentionally imitating Moriarty to get a reaction from him. He took a deep breath, and explained calmly, "After Moriarty stabbed you, he had Dr. Watson attempt to mend your wound, but it seems the injury was too severe for him to deal with alone. When he realized your life was at risk, he contacted me and had both you and Dr. Watson delivered to this hospital."

Sherlock blinked at him in confusion. "What? Where is he, then?" he asked. "Where's Jim?"

"I don't know," Mycroft replied flatly. "He disappeared moments after calling me, it seems, and we have no intelligence on his location as of yet."

"'No intelligence as of yet'?" Sherlock repeated incredulously. "What, he just dropped me and John off and left? You've got to be kidding me."

Mycroft sighed and leaned back in his chair. "No, not exactly," he said calmly. "He didn't actually accompany you. You and John were brought here in a van driven by . . . an employee of Moriarty. _He_ is in custody, but he either doesn't know or won't say where Moriarty is. We're working on it," he added with a polite smile.

Sherlock was frozen into complete stillness for a moment as he considered the implications of Mycroft's statement. Jim, it seemed, had just . . . left him. At a _hospital_. For no reason, apparently, except his _health_. Jim had let Sherlock go, in order to _save him_.

That . . . seemed unlikely, to Sherlock. Extremely unlikely. He imagined that he'd gotten to know Jim, just a little, in the three years they had spent in one another's company, and this particular 'act of mercy' was _completely _out of character for him. Suspicion stirred in his mind as he eyed Mycroft carefully. After a moment, he spoke.

"I think you're lying," Sherlock said flatly. Mycroft twitched with surprise, and his eyebrows rose.

"Why?" Mycroft asked. "What's so shocking about what I've told you?"

"Jim wouldn't set me free out of _concern_," Sherlock snarled. "There's no way, not a chance in _hell_ that he would be so desperate to save my life that he'd just . . . walk away. You're _lying_ to me, Mycroft. You're lying about _something_."

Mycroft studied his brother, his mind racing as he processed Sherlock's rant. Sherlock had to be wrong in his assessment, didn't he? John had relayed to him everything that had happened, and it did seem that Moriarty really _had_ walked away. Mycroft had been incredulous himself when he'd heard the story, but he had eventually just supposed that Moriarty's strange obsession with Sherlock extended to a desire to keep him alive, and accepted it.

Sherlock seemed so convinced, though . . . Perhaps there was more to the story. Mycroft resolved to speak to John at once. He could feel a growing suspicion that John had left something out, whether purposely or not.

"_In the meantime,"_ he decided, "_There is no need to inform Sherlock that all may not be as it seems. This . . . question, it could be nothing at all."_

Mycroft rose abruptly. Sherlock frowned at him. "Well?" he demanded. "Are you going to tell me the truth?"

"I've told you all I know," Mycroft responded coldly. "Whether you believe me or not is your own concern. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to. You really ought to get some rest. You do have a stab wound, remember."

Sherlock watched in disbelief as his brother swept officiously out of the room, swinging his umbrella smartly as he walked. The door closed behind him with a resounding 'click,' and Sherlock glared at it, waiting for the second 'click' of a lock. It never came. He studied the door, waiting patiently, but there was no sound except the muffled tapping of Mycroft's umbrella as he moved swiftly down the hallway, and even that soon faded.

Sherlock realized, much to his astonishment, that for the first time in _years_ he had been left alone in an unlocked room. His head spun as he considered the possibilities. Escape? Maybe. Exploration? Definitely. He could find out where he was, perhaps even find someone who could tell him what Mycroft was lying to him about. He pushed himself up in the bed, swinging his legs toward the side.

Without warning, his vision went white and his ears rang as agony slammed through his torso. He crumpled back against the bed, eyes clenched shut. "_Ow,_" he choked out, gasping for breath. "Bad idea. Very bad idea. Very, very, _very_ bad idea."

He maneuvered himself carefully back against the pillow and tried to get his breath back. "Stab wound," he muttered to himself. "How the _hell_ did I forget about the damn _stab wound_?"

For the moment, at least, it seemed unlocked doors were _not _portals to whole worlds of knowledge and adventure. They were just doors, and a door is utterly useless when you can't even stand up and walk towards it. Sherlock ground his teeth with frustration. He would not, _could not_, just lie here, trapped by his injury. There had to be a way. His eyes darted around, seeking anything that might help, and lighted upon the chart hanging off the side of his bed.

Sherlock reached out with infinite care, trying not to jostle himself as he stretched out a hand and grabbed the clipboard. He scrutinized it, quickly deciphering the jagged scrawl of the doctor. The knife, it seemed, had missed most major organs, but had nicked one of his kidneys. The injury, added to the strain from the drugs, had nearly shut down both, and killed him.

Fortunately, John had managed to stabilize him almost immediately, before the damage was irreparable. When he'd gotten to the hospital, they had been able to act quickly enough to save both kidneys, which were, according to the latest tests, functional. Nothing else had been damaged enough to cause serious concern, and he was expected to make a full recovery.

Sherlock scowled as he flipped through the pages again. None of that was at all helpful to his current predicament. As he glanced at one of the pages (list of medicines, probably boring), he suddenly stopped. He carefully turned back to that page and stared at the line that had caught his eye: IV morphine, pump.

Sherlock's eyes shot to the side of the bed, scanning for anything that looked like it could be what he was promised. He hadn't even _considered _the possibility that he would have gotten a morphine pump, but of course he would. This was a _real hospital, _where they had those sorts of things, and- there!

He smiled at the little red button. It was hooked up to an IV bag from which a tube connected to his main line. And on the bag- MORPHINE, in small black letters. He reached over and pressed the button twice, relaxing with delight as he felt the pain retreat steadily from his injury. Sherlock was certain that with a bit of morphine to keep agony at bay he would have no problem going for a little stroll through the hospital.

He gave the IV a moment to finish distributing it, and then carefully yanked the tube out of his arm. He reached up and flicked off the heart monitor, than stripped the pads off his chest, grinning when he felt no ensuing twinges from his side. He pushed himself carefully out of bed and headed for the door, leaning on whatever furniture he passed to support his wavering balance.

Sherlock stumbled dreamily across the room, considering without much concern that the morphine may have affected him more than he'd thought it would. At last, he made it to the door (unlocked magic portal) and turned the handle. Now, _finally_, he could go and find out what the hell was going on, what Mycroft was hiding, where Jim was- One of his questions, at least, was immediately answered when he pulled open the door.

"Hi, honey. Did you miss me?" Jim asked cheerfully. He grinned at Sherlock with amusement as he leaned casually against the doorframe.


	10. Chapter 10: Captured Again

**A/N****: I'm really, really sorry it's been so long. I've had awful writer's block on this chapter. It's here now, though, so enjoy, and please review!**

**Warnings****: Some violence and cursing. **

Captured Again

"Jim?" Sherlock whispered, shocked. "How . . . how did you get in here?" He couldn't believe it. _Mycroft _had just walked out the door, and there was no way in hell that he would have left Sherlock in a hospital with so little security that _Jim_ could just stroll right in. Sherlock wondered if he could be hallucinating.

"Oh, it was easy," Jim replied cheerfully. He slipped around Sherlock to enter the room and closed the door carefully behind him. "Mycroft puts far too much faith in his security team."

Sherlock considered the implications of that. "You paid off someone on Mycroft's security team?" he asked with disbelief. "That's ridiculous. Mycroft has the most involved screening process known to man."

"Haven't you learned anything, darling?" Jim asked with a laugh. "Everyone has _something_ they can be manipulated with. Even you did."

Sherlock winced at the reminder of how he had ended up in this situation. "So do you, it seems," he snapped in reply. "A _hospital_, Jim? Really? I didn't know you cared."

"Of course I care!" Jim snarled. "After all these years, did you really think I was going to let you just die? You're _mine_, Sherlock. I won't lose you so easily."

Sherlock stared at him, horrified and amazed. "You won't lose me?" he asked quietly. "How, exactly, do you intend to get me back? We're in a hospital, Jim, and maybe you could stroll_ in_ without a problem, but I very much doubt that you could leave so easily, especially if I'm with you. Besides, Mycroft or John is probably going to come back any minute. What's your plan?"

Jim smiled brightly. "My _plan_, Sherlock, is very simple, and very much none of your concern." He withdrew a capped syringe from one of his pockets, and Sherlock went pale.

"No, Jim, you can't!" he yelped with alarm, backing away.

Moriarty ignored this and moved steadily toward him. Sherlock retreated back even farther, but his balance was still off and he tripped, crumbling to the floor. The sudden movement jarred his wound and he gasped in pain, temporarily immobilized. Jim grabbed his wrist and prepared to inject the drug.

"Wait!" Sherlock gasped weakly. "I just had morphine; if you give me that on top of it you could kill me!"

Jim stopped and looked at him, annoyed. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he said flatly. "_Morphine_, Sherlock? Was that _really _necessary?"

"You're the one who stabbed me," Sherlock snapped. "It hurt."

Moriarty sighed and reached over to the morphine pump. He swung the screen around and checked how much had been distributed. His eyebrows rose at the number. "Impressive. How the hell are you conscious now?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "High tolerance?" he offered.

"Maybe," Jim agreed. Then without any warning, he grabbed Sherlock's arm and shoved the needle into his vein. "Relax," he said soothingly. "I'm only giving you a half dose. It won't kill you."

Sherlock glared at him and tried to craft a reply, but the sedative was quickly joining the morphine in his blood to pull him under. His vision wobbled and dimmed as he resigned himself to unconsciousness.

Mycroft was in the waiting room organizing some rather important business on his phone when he heard John yelling his name from the hallway. He hurried to the door. "What's wrong?" he asked, seeing John's frantic expression.

"Where the hell is Sherlock?" John demanded. "He's not in his room and the doctors don't know where he is. Have you had him moved?"

"No," Mycroft told him quietly. "I haven't changed any arrangements. When was the last time anyone saw him?"

"They said no one's been in there since you went in to see him," John said worriedly. "What did he say when you talked to him?"

"Nothing that might indicate where he's gone," Mycroft replied. "He was angry at me and suspicious of Moriarty deciding to send him to the hospital, but that's all. Maybe he left on his own?"

John shook his head, dismissing the suggestion. "I don't think he could have, not with that injury. Besides, the nurses would have seen him leave, and they said no one's been in _or _out."

Mycroft stilled. "They're lying," he said softly. "If my brother is no longer in his room, he must have, at some point, left it. If the nurses claim no one left, either they weren't looking and don't have the faintest idea who's been in or out, or they know exactly where he is. Either way, they're lying." He moved swiftly out of the room, dialing his phone as he walked.

"Anthea?" he said into the phone, "Gather up all nurses and security personnel who've had access to Sherlock's room in the past hour and bring them to a secure location."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes, right away," She replied quickly. She paused a moment and then asked uncertainly, "Is he . . . missing again, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, of course. What did you think this was about?" Mycroft snapped. He closed his phone with more force than necessary as he strode toward Sherlock's room.

The nurses were all clustered around outside it looking worried. When they saw Mycroft and John approaching, they began to look even more frantic. "Mr. Holmes!" one of them called out nervously. "I'm so sorry; I don't know what could have happened!"

Before she could continue, Anthea materialized beside her, and took hold of her elbow, steering her swiftly toward the exit. "Thank you for your concern. I need all of you to come with me now!" she called to the rest of the nurses. The group followed her hesitantly, casting uncertain glances over their shoulders at Mycroft and John as they left.

Mycroft took a deep breath and moved into Sherlock's room. He slowly looked around, taking in the rumpled blanket and the disarranged monitors. He slowly walked across the room, carefully eyeing the scuff marks on the floor. He examined briefly the readouts on the monitors, and then sank into one of the chairs with an air of defeat. He rested his head in his hands and didn't say a word.

John watched him for a moment before he spoke. "So . . . bad news, then?" he inquired with a forced air of positivity.

"The worst," Mycroft said grimly. "It's him. Moriarty has taken my brother. Again."

John went pale. "No," he gasped. "He can't have. There were more layers of security on this place than the damn _palace_. He couldn't have gotten in here!"

"That's what I thought," Mycroft replied. "It seems I was wrong. Once again I underestimated Moriarty, and now . . . it could be another three years before I find him. The only reason I got Sherlock back this time was because Moriarty _gave_ him to me! Do you think that's likely to happen again?"

"But there has to be some way," John reasoned, trying to stay calm. "With your network, can't you find him? They've been gone less than an hour. There has to still be a chance!"

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to take strength from John's words. "Yes," he said firmly. "There's still a chance. I need to get people combing the area, and I'll need to go over the information gathered from his house. We'll find them. We've got more to go on this time."

"Right," John said hopefully. "We'll find him. Let's get to work."

Sherlock found himself once again in the uncomfortable position of regaining consciousness after being sedated. He was quite sure that this was happening far too often lately. It couldn't be healthy. He groaned and blinked at the ceiling. His head was spinning, his stab wound hurt, and whatever he was lying on seemed to be moving and bouncing quite a lot.

With difficulty, he turned his head to the side. There was a wall about two inches away from his face he blinked at it, the turned the other way. Jim was sitting on a bench across from where he was lying, typing something into his cell phone. He glanced up and smiled brightly when he saw that Sherlock was awake.

"Good morning," he said with a smirk. "Sleep well?"

"Screw you," Sherlock snapped back at him.

"Well, someone's forgotten his manners," Jim said sarcastically. "There's no need for that kind of language, Sherlock." There was a dangerous edge to his tone.

Sherlock flinched slightly. "Sorry," he mumbled. He hesitated, then, in a more polite tone, asked, "Where are we?"

"In a van, on our way to the airport," Jim told him. "I've got a plane waiting for us there, and then we can be on our way."

"Oh," Sherlock considered this for a moment. "Where's the plane taking us?"

Jim shrugged. "I haven't decided," he said absently, scrutinizing his phone. He glanced up. "Although I have heard that Italy is lovely this time of year."

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't know you had a house in Italy," he said, surprised. "I thought you told me about all your places."

Jim laughed. "The house in Italy is new," he explained. "Which is why I'm considering it. I can't be certain what you told your brother."

"I didn't tell him anything!" Sherlock protested furiously. "You know I'm not just going to go tell _Mycroft_ anything!"

"I thought you might not have told him," Jim said calmly. "But I know you have no such reservations about John, and either way, I can't be too careful. The house in Italy is nice, anyway. I think you'll like it."

"I don't want to go to Italy," Sherlock muttered sullenly.

Jim sighed. "Shut up, Sherlock," he said irritably. "We've got a long trip ahead of us, and I'm not going to spend it listening to you whine."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but caught the warning glint in Jim's eyes and thought better of it. He would prefer to spend the trip awake, for once, if it was _at all_ possible.


End file.
